


Break

by mistr3ssquickly



Series: Redemption [4]
Category: Star Wars Episode V: Empire Strikes Back, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, but hey at least this arc now has some proper smut in it, let's fill in plotholes with why i think leia's in such a bad mood at the beginning of ESB, this is a whole lot of story for such a little prompt, took me long enough jeez
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 14:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11015700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistr3ssquickly/pseuds/mistr3ssquickly
Summary: Contrary to the opinions of the majority of soldiers, pilots, engineers, and other assorted idealistic riffraff Han’s heard complaining as if it were the only method available for breathing the air, Hoth isnotthe worst place in the galaxy.  Han's ready to get off it for a day or two anyway, and to take Luke along with him if he can.Predictably, it doesn't go how he'd hoped it would.





	Break

**Author's Note:**

  * For [culturevulture73](https://archiveofourown.org/users/culturevulture73/gifts).



> This pairs with ["Memory"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10445250) like a hot milk tea with pancakes, but you can read them in whatever order you wish. It's more a complementary thing than a prerequisite.
> 
> Also, tons of love to CultureVulture73 for the prompt and for your overall support of my love of this fandom. You're a peach pie, my dear.

Contrary to the opinions of the majority of soldiers, pilots, engineers, and other assorted idealistic riffraff Han’s heard complaining as if it were the only method available for breathing the air, Hoth is _not_ the worst place in the galaxy. It’s plenty cold, sure, and boring, _beyond_ boring, _suffocatingly boring,_ more like a prison than a planet, no civilization on it save for the tiny cluster of makeshift bunkers Han helped raise with his own two thickly gloved hands, but it’s got clear blue skies and absolutely no intergalactic traffic passing anywhere close to it, nothing but meteors coming down onto the blinding expanses of wasteland. No hint of the Empire’s web of spies closing like a noose around the rebellion’s neck, peppering Han’s sleep with nightmares and bringing dark circles under Leia’s eyes, and where they’re in too close quarters to get away with sneaking off to spend any quality time together in Han’s bunk, he’s stolen a moment or two with Leia that _weren’t_ steeped in stress and fear, her sincere affection for him when they’re in bed together surfacing often enough to remind him why he’s stuck by her side as he has over the years.

Hoth’s also got Luke, the ever-enthusiastic moisture farmboy from Tatooine who went wide-eyed with excitement upon seeing morning mist on Yavin IV for the first time and lost his goddamn mind when he got his first look at snow on Hoth, shoving _his bare hands_ into the stuff, almost up to his elbows, upon first arriving, a look of shocked betrayal on his face when _that_ turned out to be one of his worse ideas, his hands bright red when he yanked them free. Luke who, in his characteristic way tried really, _really_ hard to approach the bitter cold of Hoth with optimism and positivity, babbling endlessly about how pretty the snow looked reflecting sun crystals first thing in the mornings until he came back one afternoon with a nasty combination of wind- and sun-burn on the exposed skin of his cheeks and chin so serious that it required a bacta mask to heal, leaving him very quiet about the aesthetic value of the world stretching beyond the gloom of the base after that. He then took to befriending the herd of tauntauns stabled at the eastern end of the base, fully protected from the wind and ice and snow, grinning at Han when Han happened on him talking to one of them as he groomed her one afternoon, cheerfully explaining that tauntauns, like ‘droids, get lonely too.

 _That_ stopped around the same time Luke took to wearing extra layers on base, even when training with the other pilots, moving around enough that he really _should_ be warm, his compatriots all flushed and complaining afterwards about the combat drills, grumbling their complaints over cold rations and hot, bitter kaffin in the mess hall. Han doesn’t train with them but he does eat with them, mostly because it means he’ll get to share a meal with Luke, which is always a good way to cheer himself up in the middle of the day.

“Goin’ out to see your new best friend?” Han says one afternoon when Luke stands, his empty plate and mug in hand and his shoulders hunched up under his ears, his frame almost comically bulky under his heavy outer garment. Luke gives him a quizzical look, so Han sighs and says: “The tauntaun,” even though Luke should’ve been able to figure it out, really.

“Oh,” Luke says. “No, I was going to train a bit more.”

Han snorts. “Thought you’d’ve had enough’a that by now,” he says. “Been at it two hours already with the guys haven’t you?”

Luke nods. “Combat training, yeah. I wanted to practice with my lightsaber some, though.”

Dedicated as ever. Han rolls his eyes. “Have fun,” he says, slapping Luke on the shoulder as he goes by. The layers of polyfilled fluff separating him from Luke squish under his hand, so similar to a stuffed toy he had as a child that it takes effort not to crack a smile, disinterested as he is in explaining _that_ particular association with Luke.

He spends the better part of the afternoon trying unsuccessfully to help the engineers on base get the ‘speeders they brought with them modified to withstand the freezing temperatures outside the hangar, arguing bitterly with Chewbacca over the best approach to take and ending up with a ‘speeder no more useful by the time he’s ready to give up for the day than it was when he first darkened the hangar doorway, his only consolation being that the ‘speeder Chewie’s been tinkering with is in no more functional a state.

“You said it, Chewie,” he grumbles when Chewbacca correctly classifies the ‘speeders as fancy scrap that were destined for the junk pile even before they were dropped onto an ice cube in the farthest corner of the galaxy, his agreement with the wookiee’s assessment helping to smooth over any ruffled feathers from their earlier bickering. “I’m gonna go warm up on the _Falcon._ Need to be around tech that isn’t shit for a minute.”

He kicks the worthless ‘speeder on his way out, his boot bumping hard enough against his toes to remind him that his feet are _cold_ and impact against cold toes _hurts._ It’s got him limping a little as he makes his way back to the _Falcon,_ his inner grumbling monologue derailed as he passes through the main hangar and spots someone sitting in the pilot’s seat of Luke’s X-wing, someone easily twice Luke’s size, and where the transparisteel canopy is half-fogged over, concealing the intruder’s features well enough to provide the anonymity Han’s fairly certain the creeper was hoping for, there’s enough of a silhouette visible for Han to tell with certainty that _they aren’t Luke,_ which means they have _no_ business _touching_ Luke’s X-wing, let alone sitting in it.

“The _hell_ d’you think you’re doin’ in there,” he demands, once he’s got the access ladder secured and scaled, banging one of his gloved fists against the side of the canopy, squinting a little at the figure inside. He’s ready to really lay into the guy when he hears the hiss of the latches disengaging, fully prepared to remind whatever asshole thinks it’s okay to touch another man’s ship without permission that he’s sitting in Luke Fucking Skywalker’s X-wing, the X-wing flew against the _Death Star,_ the X-wing that took the killing shots that saved the rebellion from certain destruction, but instead of a tubby pilot wanting some alone-time with his hero’s ship, the rising canopy reveals Luke Skywalker himself, wrapped up in what looks like no fewer than four layers of quilted thermal winterwear, sitting in the cockpit of his ship with a warming packet in his lap and a datapad in his hand, one of the latest Corellian action dramas paused on the screen.

“Hi, Han,” he says, as if his own and Han’s behavior are perfectly normal. Han frowns at him.

“Hey there, kid. What’re you doing?”

Luke shrugs. “I was cold,” he says. “It’s easier to raise the temperature in an enclosed space, so I thought I’d come here to warm up a bit.”

His nose is very pink. Han has the irrational urge to tap it with the tip of his finger.

“Workin’ out for you?” he says, nodding at the warming packet in Luke’s lap.

Luke shrugs again. “I think it’d be more effective if I were wearing less,” he says, “but then I’ll chill as soon as I leave the hangar. That’s the problem with warming up here: it makes the body more susceptible to chilling, after.”

“Yeah, better just to freeze straight away, don’t even fight lettin’ the planet turn you into a block’a ice like it wants to,” Han deadpans. “My bunk on the _Falcon’s_ bigger’n this, but not by much. If you want to come by and warm up there with me.”

It’s not the most subtle offer he’s ever made, and he’s not as sure of it working as he usually is when he propositions someone he knows, someone he cares about, but Luke chuckles softly and says _all right,_ waiting for Han to descend the ladder before coming down himself, actually _waddling_ a little as he falls into step behind Han, the layers of clothing robbing him of his usual grace.

Those layers prove themselves to be a right pain in the ass, too, once Han’s got him alone in the relative warmth of his bunk on the _Falcon,_ the long weeks since the last time they messed around together making him more impatient than usual to feel Luke’s skin against his own, to indulge in the pleasure of shared body heat under his blankets. He’s naked long before Luke’s gotten himself stripped down even to what most of his fellow pilots would call their outerwear, shivering and pricked all over with gooseflesh by the time Luke’s stripped off all but his undergarments, and even _those_ are a disappointment, the tight-fitting plain-style briefs he’s favored over the years Han’s enjoyed seeing him undressed replaced with long-handle underwear that remind Han unpleasantly of the old men in his childhood neighborhood who wandered around mumbling senselessly, their minds long since rotted away under the weight of spice addiction, the thick fabric loose enough on Luke’s frame to conceal the musculature he’s developed over his years of training with the other pilots, musculature Han had rather been looking forward to seeing.

“Wondered how you were holdin’ up in this climate,” he comments when Luke strips out of his awful long-handle unders and darts immediately under the blankets, shivering even after Han's joined him, their body heat mingling wonderfully under the blankets. “Bit colder’n Tatooine here.”

Luke breathes a laugh against Han’s throat, following it with a gentle bite that raises gooseflesh down Han’s skin for an entirely different (and much more pleasant) reason. “It is,” he says. “Leia warned me it'd be cold, but I thought it’d be cold like the nights back home. Not like this. I didn’t -- I’d never imagined _anything_ could be colder than that.”

He says it unabashedly, no hint of shame in his tone at his own naivete, just wonder and excitement, his joy at experiencing new things as bright as ever, infectious in its potency. Han pulls him up and kisses him on the mouth for it, Luke responding with characteristic enthusiasm, apparently just as happy as Han is to stop talking for a while.

He’s warm by the time they’ve worn each other out, warm and sweating a little as he drowses at Han’s side, one arm wrapped possessively across Han’s belly, the blankets pulled up to his ears, a precaution he was careful to take before he’d settle down. Adapting as best he can, Han muses as he watches Luke drop fully into sleep, going limp beside him, so trusting and affectionate that it _hurts,_ gives Han the ridiculous urge to wrap him up in a blanket and keep him aboard the _Falcon_ until he can negotiate leaving Hoth, taking Luke with him someplace warmer, someplace better-suited to accommodate Luke’s desert world upbringing.

He threads his fingers through Luke’s hair, the blanket's edge brushing static against his wrist as he sifts mentally through the worlds he’s visited, places he’s been where his usual boots and trousers were too much for the warm air, but not a necessary protection from the elements as they are on Tatooine. He thinks of the temperate forests of Kashyyyk, the clear air and cooler nights affording a glorious view of the stars overhead, reflected in the countless streams and lakes certain to delight Luke’s undimmed fascination with water. He thinks of the body-heat humidity of Ryztafir City, its sweating brightness under the affectionate glow of a single sun born into colorful brilliance at night, the streets lined with glowbulbs and cheerful merchants, as safe and peaceful a corner of the galaxy as one could imagine. Even Rodia would suffice, he thinks, turning to rest his cheek against the top of Luke’s head, smiling a little at the memory of Luke’s attempt at solemn diplomacy falling apart upon his first exposure to the endless lagoons there, his eagerness to go out and explore once they’d secured a satisfactory weapons deal for the rebellion all but radiating around him like the sunlight filtering through the atmosphere domes.

At his side, Luke shifts, stretching out his legs in a sprawl that Han knows from nights sharing his bunk with the guy on warmer worlds will end up with Luke taking up the entire bed, but he doesn’t much mind it, pleased to see Luke warm enough to uncurl himself, finally, pleased to have a lover sharing his bed, something he’s not enjoyed often since their arrival on Hoth and has dearly, intimately missed.

He’s alone when he wakes the following morning, Luke and all of Luke’s ridiculous layers missing from the floor of his quarters, which means Luke’s skill in sneaking away without making noise has improved along with his hand-to-hand combat and lightsaber-wielding skills. He's also _cold,_ not unusually so, no moreso than he's been every other morning he's woken alone on Hoth, but it feels _offensively_ cold, somehow, the contrast of the chill assaulting his skin as he forces himself out from under his blankets sharper because of the shared body warmth he'd enjoyed all night, the long abstinence he's had both from Luke and Leia sharing his bed putting him in a downright stormy mood that does nothing but worsen when Leia finds him in the mess and tells him -- before he's had his first cup of kaffin, no less -- that there's a strategy meeting going on and his presence is expected to be in attendance, immediately.

“This some kind’a punishment for somethin’?” he grumbles as he settles in at Leia’s side in what everyone’s been calling a meeting room but is little more than three duraplast walls and a solid wall of packed snow, a table in the middle cobbled together from three smaller tables, their combined perimeter just large enough to accommodate half a dozen strategic thinkers and one grumpy smuggler.

Leia looks at him sidelong, one eyebrow raised. “Have you done something lately that warrants punishment?”

“Place like this doesn’t afford a man much opportunity to get into trouble,” he tells her, but Luke walks in as he’s speaking and doesn’t even _try_ to look like he didn’t spend the night previous with his hands and mouth wrapped around Han’s cock, so Han shuts up and occupies his mouth with the contents of his cup, stalwartly avoiding the knowing look he can _feel_ Leia giving him.

General Rieekan saves him from further scrutiny by calling the meeting to order, his usual abruptness welcome in the settling chill of the room as he shares an update on a deep-embedded spy in the Black Sun operation burdened with intel she can’t share across the holonet, needing a contact to collect from her. No different than the dozens of similar situations Han’s seen sprinkled across his years hanging around the rebellion, the influx of intel pulsing like an irregular heartbeat, sustaining the efforts of the wearied idealists around him. Only this time --

“I’ll go,” he says, draping his words in a long-suffering sigh to conceal the eagerness he can feel spiking his heart-rate, the promise of escape from Hoth, even if only for a few days, sparkling like the treasure from his childhood fantasies. “I’ve done business on Ord Mantell before, know my way around. Give me Skywalker and an Imperial freighter for cover, couple’a days to get the job done. We’ll bring back the intel for you, no problem.”

Rieekan lifts both eyebrows at him. “You’re certain?” he says. 

Han shrugs. “Sure. If Luke’s all right with that.”

“I am,” Luke says without hesitation.

“Very well,” Rieekan says. “I’ll see how many of our ground force we can spare to go with you.”

Han waves his hand. “Not necessary,” he says. “We can handle it, just the two of us.”

“Just the two of you,” Rieekan echoes.

“Yeah. Fewer moving parts to keep track of,” Han says, “less collateral risk. Ain’t like we’re green recruits who don’t know which end’a the blaster to point at the enemy, y’know.”

“And the negotiations?” Rieekan says.

Han tips his head in Leia’s direction. “Been around Her Worship long enough, some’a those niceties have rubbed off,” he says. “We’ll handle your guy all right, see to it he’s interested in keepin’ you informed whenever he hears something worth sharing. Ain’t my first time doin’ this either, you know.”

Rieekan _actually_ breathes a chuckle, at that, shaking his head. “That’s true enough,” he says. “Objections to or comments on Solo’s offer?”

Han glances around the table, keeping his expression mild but pointed, an unspoken challenge daring anyone to cast aspersions against his abilities. He’s pleased to see Luke looking around as well, more curious than provocative, pleased to see little more in Leia’s expression than the thin-lipped grim worry she’s carried with her since Yavin IV, the weight of the entire galaxy resting like a yoke around her neck.

“Very well,” Rieekan says when no one speaks up. “I’ll put out the orders and see about arranging a decoy ship for your use. Report back at thirteen hundred hours for commission and final briefing.”

Han tosses off a half-hearted salute and stuffs his hands into his pockets as he leaves the briefing room, Luke falling into step beside him.

“It was good of you to volunteer,” he says.

“Best man for the job,” Han says. He looks around, dropping his voice once he’s sure there’s enough distance between them and the others that he’s not likely to be overheard. “And it ain’t a bad way to get off this block’a ice for a few days. Ord Mantell ain’t a tropical paradise, but it’s warmer than this place by a long-shot.”

“I wondered,” Luke says.

“Wondered what?”

“If there was another reason you wanted to go,” Luke says. “You volunteered us really quickly back there.”

Han frowns, displeased as always when Luke acts like he’s got him figured, which he _doesn’t,_ and won’t, ever, not if Han can help it. “Ain’t like that’s the only reason,” he says. “Like I said back in the meeting, it ain’t like anyone else around here knows the Black Sun’s operations. Make a misstep out there and you'll make a bigger mess’a things than we’re in already, stuck out here.”

“How _do_ you know about their operations?” Luke wants to know, looking at him with an expression of innocent curiosity on his face that Han _knows_ is bullshit, the younger man’s delighted interest in Han’s smuggling stories alive and well as always. He grins, slinging his arm around Luke’s shoulders.

“Now _that’s_ a set’a stories for the trip over,” he says, his grin stretching at the thought of filling Luke’s ear with his past experiences dealing on Ord Mantell, the best of his stories wild enough that they won’t need all _that_ much embellishment or exaggeration to get a reaction out of the younger man.

He works through which of his tales he’ll tell Luke for the flight over as he packs up his bag and changes into the Imperial uniform one of the lower-ranked soldiers he’s seen participating in drills brings by for him, the ever-present chill of Hoth getting him into the uniform faster than its designers likely had in mind for a person to do, judging from the amount of difficulty Han has in that pursuit. It’s far less comfortable than his usual shirt and trousers even _before_ he’s gotten it fully on, and it’s downright uncomfortable then, the collar too tight and the trousers pressed stiff, forcing a tight posture and an even tighter step, the seam of the trousers wedging itself firmly in the crack of his ass the minute he's slid into the captain's seat aboard their stolen Imperial freighter.

“Ain't so much a mystery now why Imperial trash’re always lookin’ for ways to make us miserable,” he complains to Luke when the younger man comes aboard, clad in a matching uniform, and takes the copilot seat at Han’s side, sitting up stiffly like his trousers are getting just as fresh with him as Han’s are. “Feel like I'm bein’ strangled in this getup.”

Luke chuckles softly, shifting a little as he initiates the launch diagnostics. He looks damn good in uniform, despite his obvious discomfort in it, the tailored fit and dark cloth striking against his light hair and slender build, a far cry from the plush winterwear he's been sporting lately, for sure. He gives Han a self-conscious smile when he sees Han looking him up and down, opens his mouth to say something about it, probably, but the sound of footsteps in the corridor leading to the cockpit distracts him, his face lighting up at the sight of Leia coming through the doorway wearing an Imperial uniform with a lieutenant's insignia on the chest, his expression warming into one of his full, beautiful smiles, a rarity lately that Han finds he’s truly missed.

“Are you coming with us?” he says straight away, eager as always to have the princess’s attention focused on him.

“I am, yes,” Leia says, saving Han the embarrassment of making fun of Luke for asking what he’d thought was a stupid question. “Carl conferred with some of the other generals and they decided it would be best to send me along with you. To help facilitate the political interactions.”

It takes Han a long, confused second to realize that she’s referring to General Rieekan as _Carl,_ which doesn’t sit well with him, any more than her implications that he and Luke can’t handle diplomacy, but Luke says _that’s a good idea_ before he can voice his complaints, so he keeps them to himself, gesturing grandly at the secondary flight-seat and inviting Leia to sit.

“Ain’t much of a throne, though,” he says, taking the pilot’s seat and prepping for launch. “This thing was designed to carry cargo, not royalty, so don’t expect this to be a smooth ride. It ain’t all that far to Ord Mantell, but it won’t be a luxury cruise there, I’ll tell ya.”

“Luke and I have both traveled with you aboard the _Falcon,”_ Leia says, settling at his back, her wicked little smile audible in her tone. “We can handle a rough ride.”

Luke puts his hand over his mouth, clearly trying to hide his laughter. Han glares at him, punching in their destination coordinates hard enough to make his fingertip sore. “No respect for my girl,” he grumbles. “Should make the pair’a you apologize to her before we go anywhere.”

Neither of his companions offers anything remotely like an apology, which isn’t a surprise, and Luke’s humor dissipates fast enough as they launch into Hoth’s thin atmosphere, the ship shaking and shuddering around them, groaning in complaint until they’ve reached the emptiness of the stars. The hyperdrive’s old but functional, flinging them into hyperspace with a sickening lurch that doesn’t do any permanent physical damage to any of them or the ship itself but has Luke grimacing when Han glances at him, Leia’s breathing labored from her seat behind him.

“Toldya,” he says, twisting around to grin at her.

“You weren’t wrong,” Leia says, tipping her head back against the seat’s head-rest and closing her eyes. “That was unnecessarily dramatic.”

She looks like she’s genuinely queasy, her cheeks flushed pink in bright contrast to the pallor of the rest of her face, so Han says, “Rest’a the trip’ll be smoother,” pleased when she opens her eyes long enough to offer him a weak smile.

She’s slipped into one of her quiet moods by the time they come out of hyperspace, Luke focused and quiet as well, same as he is whenever he’s getting to see a new planet for the first time, both of them wordlessly taking in the stark ridges of mountain stretched like a torn spider’s web across the planet’s surface, probably enjoying the view until their ship begins its descent into the atmosphere, the heat of entry actually seeping through the protective outer shell enough to make the cockpit unpleasantly warm by the time Han’s navigating them into the cavernous spaceport Rieekan’s intel indicated would be their safest bet. Leia puts on a good show of being unaffected by the descent, but she’s pale and only resists a little when Luke offers her his arm, guiding her down to the exit hatch, out into the relative warmth of the afternoon.

“Welcome to Ord Mantell,” Han says under his breath as they're approached by a pair of Spion ostensibly wanting to negotiate the port rate, but Han knows better, knows enough to recognize when he's being interrogated by the real power running a city or nation or -- in the case of the Black Sun -- a whole damn planet. He gives away as little as he can as he negotiates, surprised when Leia steps in and orders him to shut his mouth as if he’d been letting all kinds of information slip, demanding of the Spion with all the power and confidence of a mid-level Imperial officer their cooperation in allowing them to dock unmolested, her severe affect absolutely terrifying, for all that Han _knows_ she’s just bluffing.

“Not bad,” he concedes once they've settled with the Spion and escaped the exhaust-laden air of the port, out into the overcast haze of the street. 

“You're welcome,” Leia returns, and Han doesn't have to look at Luke to know that he's trying not to smile, always more entertained by Han looking a fool than he should be, really.

He stays quiet while Han leads them through the decently busy port city, looking around a bit more obviously than he maybe _should,_ considering he’s supposed to be an Imperial officer, but his expression is impassive, unimpressed, not the slack-jawed space-tourist affect he had back when he was still new to the whole galactic travel bit. Maybe doing his Jedi thing, Han muses as he watches Luke take in the sights around them without blinking, his fingers twitching like they do sometimes when he's practicing with his lightsaber. Nothing Han much minds interrupting, getting a good grope of Luke's backside, even, as they make their way into the lobby of the accommodations he’s chosen, Luke acknowledging his touch with little more than a heavy sigh.

“I hardly think this is what they intended when they gave you this assignment,” Leia says, crossing her arms over her chest, ever the dutiful daughter of the rebellion.

“Sure it is,” Han tells her, “least the ones who know anything about this kind of thing would. Show up, lay low, get a sense for what’s what, make contact, get your intel, leave before anyone even notices you were there.” He frowns at her. “Basic stuff, _Lieutenant.”_

Leia narrows her eyes at him. _“This_ is ‘laying low’?” she says, gesturing to the admittedly grand lobby around them.

“For a trio’a humans comin’ in on an Imperial freighter without goin’ to the markets first thing for a pick-up, yeah,” Han says. “Stayin’ someplace nice, havin’ a few drinks, stirrin’ the local gossip -- that’s what mid-level Imperials do when they ain’t got Vader breathing in their ear. So that’s what we’re gonna do.”

Leia doesn’t look entirely pleased at the idea of him being right, but she doesn’t argue with him, either, standing by in stony silence while Han negotiates a decent rate for one of the better rooms, tipping the owner well enough to keep his mouth shut about the details of his guests’ appearance and species. It’s more than he’d thought he’d be spending on it, enough that he’s likely to hear about it later from Madine or Rieekan, but it’s absolutely worth the cost and the inevitable grumbling just for the look on Luke’s face when he steps into the room and gets his first view of the mountain ranges visible from the wide windows lining the western wall, worth it for the way Leia softens at the sight of him, crossing the room to stand at his side.

“Quite the view, isn’t it,” she says when he notices her and puts his arm around her.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he says.

The view really _is_ breathtaking, just as awesome as Han had hoped it would be when he plunked down the credits for one of the establishment’s higher floors. Jagged mountain ranges criss-cross and twist over one another, the harsh atmosphere stripping them of anything but the hardiest plant-life, the dark wood of the scrub brush reaching up beyond the treeline outlining every detailed facet of cliff and ridge. Beyond the mountains, the sky is murky with clouds, the deep green-blue of the atmosphere muddled behind what look like distant thunderheads, a few edges bright from the planet’s nearest star.

“Makes up for the political shitstorm this place has become,” Han comments, making his way over to stand at Luke’s other side, winking when Luke looks up at him, just as lovelorn as ever where Leia’s involved and still not at all bashful about it. “More’n a couple’a native groups still manage to stay outta the politics you see in the valleys. Ain’t an easy living, but it’s better’n owing the Black Sun and lookin’ over your shoulder if you think you’ve crossed them.”

 _That_ gets Luke to look away from the view, focusing on Han with the sort of intensity Han isn’t entirely sure he wants. “Are you?” he says.

“Am I what?”

“Looking over your shoulder,” Luke says. “You said you had dealings with the Black Sun, before.”

Han chuckles darkly. “Second-hand, kid,” he says. “I was supposed to make a connection with someone who’d crossed one’a the Sun’s more ambitious rising powers. Didn’t make that connection ‘cause a group’a bruisers caught up with him and donated his organics to the local wildlife, as they say. Had to negotiate the exchange of cargo with another dealer because of it, and I don’t make a habit’a rippin’ anyone off unless I know it’s a good idea, so it was all on the up-and-up. Turned out _that_ was a good idea because the dealer I found was part’a the Sun.” He shrugs. “Less profit for less gettin’ killed. I don’t regret it.”

Luke snorts, shaking his head as he goes back to staring out across the mountains, speechless as he usually is when Han brags about his smuggling exploits, a compliment Han’s happy to take and file away, pleased as ever to still be able to impress Luke even after their years traveling the galaxy together. He gives Luke’s ass another suggestive squeeze and turns to flip through the data files Rieekan gave them for their trip, reviewing their contact’s background, the known Imperial presence he’ll have to watch for. Nothing unusual or all that difficult, really, something any of them could have handled alone without breaking a sweat.

But as he watches Luke settle at the foot of the generous bed at the far side of the room, unfastening the collar of his uniform to expose more of his bare skin than Han’s seen in weeks outside the confines of his bunk aboard the _Falcon,_ as he watches Leia unpin her hair from its braid, running her hands through it without it tangling in a staticky mess, he’s glad to have them with him, _alone_ with him, far from Luke’s military drills and lightsaber practice, separated from Leia’s endless strategy meetings and the pressures of her political role.

“You look like you’ve gotten away with something,” Leia tells him when she catches him looking at her.

“Somethin’ good, I hope,” Han says.

Leia rolls her eyes, but she’s got the prelude of a smile on her mouth, a fondness in her expression that makes Han feel like he’s probably in way over his head with her, and not for the first time, either. “I wouldn’t bet on it,” she says, but she comes over to look over his shoulder at the files he’s not giving the attention they probably deserve, her fingers in his hair a fantastic distraction, her warmth when he tips his head to the side to rest against her ribs a comfort unlike any he’s known in decades.

The job they’ve been sent to do isn’t half-bad, once he's returned his attention to them, their orders to make contact with a mid-level Sun who’s been feeding the rebellion information for _years,_ far longer than Han or Luke have been involved, and with arguably equal merit to her name. The intel they’ll be passing to her is true enough to look like good spy work, helping her keep her reputation among her group’s Imperial contacts as well-informed, worth keeping on the payroll, and -- more importantly -- worth making privy to limited information on the Empire’s strategies, just enough for her to know where to go for more information, higher-clearance intel that the rebellion will use to its fullest advantage, usually for defense, but on occasion for a successful offense. And in exchange, the rebellion provides her with weapons and whatever spying technology they’ve developed or discovered, almost aggressively turning a blind eye to whatever she (and the Sun) choose to do with it, a compromise Han is always surprised to see among the men and women Leia and Luke both seem to hold in high regard, despite their tendency to look askance at Han’s less-than-morally-righteous past.

He knows better than to bring that up, though, not when Leia’s being affectionate and Luke’s looking at them like a starry-eyed teenager watching his favorite couple from an afternoon drama, grinning like the dork nobody but Han seems to recognize he is underneath his piloting skills and lightsaber acrobatics and devastating good looks. He drafts a coded message to send to their contact, alerting her of their arrival and requesting a meeting after a day or two, the period between their arrival and making contact long enough for anyone who might have noticed them to lose interest, or at least get distracted with something else. He sends the message after Leia’s given her approval and manages to get his arm around her before she’s gotten away from him, pulling her into his lap once the message has been confirmed as sent, the element of surprise and his greater size and strength earning him a lapful of princess, the slap she gives him on the chest more a formality than a genuine expression of displeasure.

“You’re a brute,” she informs him, trying to extricate herself from his lap and failing, even though he’s not got _that_ tight a grip on her.

“You like it,” he says, leaning close enough to kiss her.

It’s a helluva good kiss, slow and probing, kind of aimless, more kissing for the sake of kissing than as prelude to anything else. Which is just fine with him, the chance to relax and do as little as possible for no reason such a rarity over the last few years that he treasures it, clings to it greedily. He’s distracted from the feel of Leia’s tongue in his mouth by the sound of Luke getting up and crossing the room, trying to be silent and mostly succeeding, and Leia gets his attention refocused quickly enough, kissing him until he’s stupid from it, his head muzzy as he looks up and finds Luke seated on the bed once again, folded up into one of his meditative poses, probably doing his best to give them what privacy he can to enjoy one another.

“How d’ya like that, Princess,” he says, tipping his head towards Luke. “Man says he’s a servant of the rebellion, then takes the whole bed to himself.”

Luke opens one eye and treats Han to a measuring look, humor warming his expression as he catches on that it’s a joke and closes his eye again. “Leia’s welcome to join me,” he says, earning a smug laugh from Leia, Han’s surprise at Luke’s comeback enough to buy her the chance to slip from his lap before he can stop her.

“I’m glad to know there are _some_ good men left in the galaxy,” she says over her shoulder as she crosses the room to join Luke on the bed.

Han snorts. “Don’t want to be a good man,” he says, “not when I’m the best. And you _both_ know I’m the best you’ve ever had, so don’t waste your breath denyin’ it.”

He’s pleased when they don’t, for all that Leia rolls her eyes at him and Luke laughs softly and goes very pink the face. He’s fairly certain they weren’t virgins the first time he took them to bed, either of them, and neither has ever spoken much about their prior experiences in that arena, but it’s gratifying all the same to think that he might’ve been correct in guessing that he’s been as good to them as he’s meant to be, not just for the sake of his pride, but because it _matters_ to him, seeing them happy, being a source of some pleasure for them, and they for him, amidst all the garbage they put up with at the hands of the Empire and the rebellion and the galaxy at large. He levers himself up from his chair and crosses the room to crowd Luke’s personal space at the foot of the bed, enjoying the way Luke kisses him like he's been craving the contact but denying himself, completely different from Leia’s slower, more intimate touch. It's damn good, kissing Luke while Leia watches, the rare privacy afforded them by their assignment filling Han’s imagination with all the ways they could pass the time together, not just in the bed, but --

“Could go for a shower before I let you two make a mess’a me,” he says, the way Luke looks up at him like he's drunk, lips swollen and face flushed making Han’s cock jerk in the confines of his uniform trousers. “Wouldn't mind some company, if you're interested. Showers here’re one’a the few thing the Black Sun didn't manage to mess up. Think you'll like 'em, both’a you.”

It's more than enough to get him both lovers joining him in the bathroom, Leia lifting a suggestive eyebrow in Han’s direction when she first lays eyes on the standing shower in the corner lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, a feature Han hadn't been expecting but is very, _very_ pleased to see. Luke, as Han had expected, zeroes in on the luxuriously big soaking tub at the opposite side of the room with the mix of curiosity and confusion he tends to have where water in any quantity larger than a drinking glass is involved, which is fine, really. Not the sexy, irresistible man Han is genuinely hoping will fuck him, preferably while surrounded by the mirrors in the shower, but still appealing, the experience of exposing Luke to new things arousing in its own subtle way. 

“Be willin’ to bet you've never seen anything like that before,” he drawls, leaning against the wall and treating Luke to his most seductive grin.

“No, I haven't,” Luke says. “Is it -- it _can't_ be for water storage, there's no cover, and you wouldn't store water in here anyway, but --” He looks at Leia. “Don't tell me we're supposed to get _in_ it.”

Leia's expression is fond, the strain of not laughing clear in the lines around her eyes, her mouth. “Yes,” she says, “that is its sole purpose. Like I told you.”

“But it's so _big,”_ Luke says, the innuendo that flits through Han's mind flying a galaxy from Luke's attention. “The way you described them, I thought they were a lot smaller.”

“They usually are,” Leia tells him.

Luke frowns, looking at the tub once again like it’s trying to make a fool of him or something. Han pushes himself away from the wall and reaches out to pinch Luke on the butt, just to get him to lighten up, squatting down to turn on the taps, the water that rushes into the tub lightly scented with herbs Han recognizes from his previous travels to Ord Mantell, and warm already, body-heat temperature, probably programmed when they checked in to suit their species.

“Big enough for three, I think,” he says, pulling his hand out of the water and flicking a few drops in Luke’s direction, just to see him flinch. “Easily.”

“You’re going to fill it up?” Luke says, not rising to the bait, his face still pulled into a frown.

“Yeah? Kinda the point, kid.”

“Won’t it cool off, though, uncovered like that?”

Han looks at the tub, then back at Luke. “Not before we’re done with it.”

Luke gestures, clearly dismayed. “But that’s _such_ a waste of water.”

Han laughs at him, can’t at all help it, even when he sees the hurt look on Luke’s face, worsening when Luke looks at Leia and finds her smiling, not laughing at him as openly as Han is, but obviously struggling to contain her amusement, his shoulders slumping like he’s only just realizing that he’s being ridiculous.

“Planet’s seventy percent water,” Han says, coming to his rescue, “and purifiers’ve been around since before -- before any’a us were even _thought_ about, so no, it ain’t a waste of water.” He slants a lascivious grin in Luke’s direction, pointedly looking him up and down. “‘Specially if we make good use of it.”

Luke cocks his head. “How?”

Han stares at him, at a momentary loss for words. “Look, kid,” he manages, finally, “I know you ain’t been around as much as I have, but I _know_ you kn--”

“No, I know you mean sex,” Luke says, as blunt as ever and painfully awkward for it. “I meant how, as in the logistics. Water isn’t a lubricant, so I’d think that wouldn’t be the best place for ... that.” He looks at Leia. “Especially for women.”

“Well, it’s certainly different from how things work in bed,” Leia tells him, “but it’s doable. Safely.”

“And you like it?” Luke says.

Leia hesitates before shrugging. “It’s fun as a novelty,” she says.

Which is her way of saying _no, not really,_ and where Han would absolutely one hundred percent take that as a challenge, an opportunity for him to show her how good sex in a bath can be when he’s the one touching her, he can almost _see_ Luke’s resolve firming around him like layers of duracrete to only sleep with Leia in the big soft bed centered in the main room, as far from the tub as he can get. A pity, that, dashing Han’s hopes of seeing them play out some of the fantasies his mind had crafted as he negotiated their room, but he knows better than to push, determined to keep his sex-life with Leia free from the arguments that seem to plague every other aspect of their relationship.

“Don’t overthink it,” he tells Luke, the same advice he gave the guy the night they all slept together the first time, crammed into his tiny bunk aboard the _Falcon,_ Luke radiating nervous uncertainty well into having Leia’s mouth on his cock and Han’s fingers in his ass, his self-consciousness only falling away when they’d gotten him well distracted, aroused to the point of _actually_ begging.

Begging’s not a bad look on him, Han muses as he pulls Luke close for a kiss, but not likely to happen when he’s on-edge like he is. Kissing’s good for that, something Luke knows how to do and does really, _really_ well, the warm thrum of arousal spreading through Han’s body once again as Luke loses some of the tension he’s had since they walked into the bathroom together and focuses with all his characteristic intensity on getting Han hard with little more than his mouth against Han’s, his hands tightening where they rest on Han’s sides, keeping him close.

They break apart at the sound of the shower starting, the sight of Leia, fully nude and stepping under the generous spray making Han’s cock jerk in his trousers. She looks at them, rubbing her hands down the streams of water tracing patterns over her arms, and treats them to a knowing smile, looking away once again as she twists her hair over one shoulder and closes her eyes, dipping her head under the flow of water.

“No need to stop on my account,” she says, blinking where water’s caught in her lashes.

“Generous of you,” Han says.

The bathroom’s steamed up by the time he’s gotten his uniform off and joined her, Luke already under the spray, bathing himself instead of touching Leia, which is a disappointment, but makes sense to Han as soon as he’s gotten into the shower with them, the feel of the water on his skin informing him just how filthy he’s gotten flying in outdated Imperial trash and wandering around Ord Mantell, how not-clean he’s been after the sonic showers on Hoth, sweating in the necessary layers of thermal while his extremities froze. He tips his head back under the spray and runs his fingers through his hair, indulging in the heat suffusing his senses, the tickle of the water as gentle as a lover’s touch. When he opens his eyes, he finds Luke watching him, the younger man averting his gaze like he thinks he’s not supposed to be looking, focusing on bathing himself with far too much interest, his bluffing skills as poor as ever.

Han gets his attention refocused quickly enough, reaching over to help him rinse the soap from his skin, the feel of Luke Skywalker slicked up and warm still one of the best things in the entire galaxy, better than anything. And because Luke’s a good man, he reciprocates, focusing most of his efforts between Han’s legs, working Han slowly to the point of slicking his touch with something other than soap.

“Ain’t plannin’ to join us, Princess?” Han says when the feel of Luke’s hands on his cock reaches the point where it either needs to stop or ramp up to something more serious, a good deal of his fantasies for the latter involving both Luke _and_ Leia, not Leia settling noiselessly into the bathtub.

“I’m rather enjoying the show, thank you,” she says, sliding into the water until she’s submerged to her collarbone, her head tipped back against the edge of the tub.

Lust shivers through Han’s skin, hotter than the water pelting him, washing away the soap and precome slicking Luke’s grip on him, a thousand ideas cluttering his thoughts of ways he and Luke could put on a show for Leia, things they’ve done in the privacy of hideouts and bunks and barracks but never with an audience, for all that he _knows_ how much Leia enjoys watching them mess around together, her voyeuristic streak just another surprise he’d not expected from her, the perfect princess, too pure for carnal pleasures.

He leans in and kisses Luke on the mouth, eager to see to Leia’s (and his own) carnal pleasure, but Luke’s distracted, kissing back like he’s going through the motions, not trying to fuck Han into an orgasm using only his tongue. Either shy about Leia so obviously watching them together, a hang-up Han thought he’d mostly overcome, or disappointed that she’s chosen not to join them; Han doesn’t entirely want to know which. He seems almost relieved when Han leaves him alone in favor of rinsing himself, rinsing as well with all the speed and efficiency of a man raised on a desert world, his desire to use as little water as possible rearing its ugly head, even on a planet as wet as Ord Mantell.

“I _still_ can’t believe this is just for soaking in,” he says as he steps out of the shower and crosses the room to the tub, crouching down at its edge to touch the surface of the water with his fingers, not half as suspicious of the water as he was the first time Han dragged him out to one of the lakes on Yavin IV and introduced him to the concept of swimming, but uncomfortable with it all the same.

“Mm. It’s very relaxing,” Leia tells him.

Luke gives the tub a dubious look, then eases his right foot into the bathwater like he’s not entirely sure he’s going to like it, his face tight in a concentrated grimace as he puts his other foot in and lowers himself down into the water.

“It’s really warm,” he comments as he submerges himself to the waist.

Leia tips her head towards him, her eyes only half-open. “If you feel dizzy,” she says, “get out and cool off. You’ll feel sick, otherwise.”

Han snorts. “He’s from Tatooine,” he reminds Leia. “He can handle heat better’n you or I can.”

“It’s a different kind of heat,” Leia tells him, her tone defensive in the way she gets around Luke sometimes. “I’d rather not see him faint.”

“Well, yeah,” Han says, even though he’s got nothing coming to mind as a suitable retort, “but.”

He steps into the tub across from the two of them, not best-pleased with the feel of Leia making a fool of him, but Luke doesn’t seem to care, doesn’t seem to have heard their exchange even, and Leia lets it drop without further pursuit, tipping her head back and closing her eyes once again, her skin flushed from the heat of the water. She’s beautiful like that, relaxed and calm in a way Han isn’t entirely certain he’s ever seen her, before, all of her usual poise and attentiveness gone from her posture. She looks younger, like that, closer to her actual age, closer to Luke’s age, Luke seated upright still at her side, watching the play of light on the water’s surface, his hair sticking out at odd angles where he’s not yet quite grasped the effect bathing in a water-shower has on it. Both of them just as gorgeous as they were the first time Han met them, but precious to him now, moreso than he’s allowed any sentient to be since he was a teenager, save for Chewbacca, and even _that_ isn’t the same, not by lightyears.

“You like it?” he says when Luke looks up and sees him staring at them, and if his tone’s more sincere than he meant for it to be, well. He figures he can play it off later. Especially when Luke nods straight away, scooting down to immerse himself more fully in the water, cupping water in his hands and splashing it up over his chest, a look of concentration on his face like he’s not sure what that’ll feel like but wants to find out for sure. He stops when he accidentally splashes Leia in the face, getting a laugh from her in answer to his awkward _sorry,_ the water licking at her shoulder as she reaches over to squeeze his thigh under the water.

“You don’t often do things to my liking, Han,” she says, her eyes slipping closed once again, “but this is good. You chose well.”

The impulse flashes past Han’s consciousness to remind her that he didn’t choose _either_ of them, that the old man chose him, and Luke and Leia happened to him somewhere along the way, but his logical mind catches up before he can make a complete fool of himself, years of bluffing his way through lethal situations bringing an easy grin to his mouth.

“Glad you approve, Your Highness,” he says. “Bed’s probably as nice as the tub, if you’d like to try it out next.”

Leia hums softly in the back of her throat, her eyes closed still, which is enough of a yes -- or at very least not enough of a _no_ \-- for Han, his imagination happily winding through his favorite fantasies for bedding his two lovers as he settles back to enjoy the warmth of the tub, idly brushing the side of his foot against Luke’s leg as he does.

He’s less than pleased to hear the _ping_ of Leia’s datapad fewer than ten minutes later, loud enough to be heard through the ‘fresher door, Leia opening her eyes and climbing out of the bath before Han can even _hope_ that she’s not heard it, all of the tension washed away in the shower and the bath coming back in full force, tightening her steps as she crosses the ‘fresher and opens the door. She’s frowning when she comes back a few minutes later, but she does at least come back, and she gets back into the water when she does, not sprawled in the carefree pose she’d adopted before, but not the perfect posture of her political persona, either.

“Is everything okay?” Luke says once she’s settled in at his side.

“More or less,” Leia says. “Our contact has encountered some chatter about our arrival. She was letting us know that she’s played it off as Imperials looking for a quick break on a routine mission, but that we should be careful, try to keep a low profile as best we can.”

Han thinks about that for a second. “That mean stickin’ around here instead’a goin’ out?” he says. “‘Cause much as I enjoy the nightlife on Ord Mantell, I won’t be cryin’ over missin’ it, for the sake’a the rebellion.”

Leia sighs, her breath rippling the water. “To the contrary, it means we’ll be moving more quickly,” she says. “We’re arranging the meeting for tomorrow, late in the morning. She recommended only two of us go. The two of you, actually. We’ll be returning to Hoth tomorrow night.”

Han considers pouting over that, but resists when he looks at Luke and sees the younger man’s confused frown.

“Why me and Han?” Luke says.

“Why _not_ us?” Han counters.

“It seems that I attracted too much attention when we first landed,” Leia says, as if Han hadn’t spoken. “A human female speaking sharply to a male counterpart is apparently something of a novelty here.”

“Really?” Luke says. “Why?”

Leia lifts her shoulders in a resigned shrug. “I can think of a variety of reasons,” she says, “but the simplest is that the Empire was founded by the men of our species and, with a few notable exceptions, is run by them still.”

Luke mulls that over for a second. “You’re right,” he says, finally. “I wouldn’t’ve noticed if you hadn’t pointed it out, but you’re right. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman in a position of power when we’ve fought the Empire on the ground.”

“It’s an archaic practice, but it should have occurred to me,” Leia says. She looks at Han, meeting and holding his gaze. “I wish it had.”

She sounds genuinely disappointed to have caused the reduction of their stay on the planet, looks like she’s blaming herself, so Han says, “Human men. We’re the worst, really,” and winks at her, pleased when she smiles in answer, leaning against Luke’s shoulder as she does.

“Not all of you,” she says, closing her eyes. “Luke’s all right.”

Han snorts and sends a splash of water her way, not at all minding when it misses its mark and gets Luke instead.

They stay in the bath long enough for Luke’s fingers to wrinkle, which is something of a fascination for him, the water on Yavin IV too cold for him to have stayed in it long enough to wrinkle. He rubs his hands together after Leia’s explained that it’s normal, touches them to his face with all of his usual curiosity after that, his face going pink when Han grins at him and offers him something else to touch.

“For comparison,” Han clarifies. “Since you’re familiar with how it feels normally, and all.”

Luke rolls his eyes, but he joins Han under the shower and touches where Han had in mind for him to touch, all the same, touches Leia as well when she joins them, and where it doesn’t turn into anything more than the most uncoordinated combination of kissing and groping and bathing Han’s ever been a part of, it’s damned nice, has him achingly hard by the time they’ve shut off the water and dried themselves, all thoughts of the work they have before them driven from his mind until they’ve given the bed a workout, all of them sweaty and messy enough to revisit the shower just shy of an hour later.

They pass the night in their suite, Leia too paranoid from her earlier misstep of character to want to venture out even for their evening meal, Luke too protective of Leia to go out without her, even when Han actually puts _effort_ into cajoling him into changing his mind. The suite loses some of its charm once he realizes he’s trapped in it, its comfortable accommodations and gorgeous view and overly luxurious bath all morphing into features of yet another prison, just as suffocating as Hoth. He entertains himself by ordering a bottle of strong local liquor, pouring a shot for each of his lovers without asking if either wants it, unsurprised when neither wants another after the first, the flavor too harsh, more like a degreaser than an imbibable substance.

“Should take a side-trip to Corellia on our way back to Hoth,” he says, shuddering through his second shot, “get some’a the _real_ thing. Probably need a whole bottle of it just to wash this outta my mouth.”

“I don’t think you should drink too much of this,” Luke says, licking his lips like he’s trying to erase the memory of the liquor from his tongue and not having much luck. “It feels like it’s probably really bad for you.”

“Truer words,” Han says, pouring himself another shot and lifting it in a toast before downing it.

It’s gross but it’s strong, has him struggling to stay awake before either of his lovers has made any move to come to bed with him, the two of them seated at the table by the window, poring over some document or another while Han does his best to sink into the fifth dimension through the ridiculously soft sheets embracing his body, the mattress a blessing of comfort under his alcohol-heavy limbs. He hears Luke say something about _looks like he’s asleep already_ at one point, but he’s too far gone to respond, deeply enough asleep by the time they do join him that he doesn’t hear them come to bed, his sleep for once completely unbroken by dreams.

He’s not alone when he surfaces to consciousness, hours later, feeling the warmth of Luke lying at his side, almost touching him, curled possessively around Leia. They’re kissing when Han wakes well enough to open both eyes and focus, which is _always_ a nice view to see when he first wakes, Leia’s fingers threaded through Luke’s hair, keeping him close, Luke’s back bare and muscles tensed, showing off the strength he’s developed over the years. He’s got one hand down between Leia’s legs, the rhythmic flex of his shoulder giving away what he’s doing down there even before Leia stops kissing him to suck in a sharp breath, the bed shaking a little as she starts to move with him, encouraging him, so wet from his touch that Han can hear the slick suck and pull of her folds around Luke’s fingers. His imagination fills with conjecture of how long they’ve been at it while he slept, their tendency towards extended foreplay always something of a fascination for him, fodder for fantasies he’s entertained when he’s been left in charge of his own pleasure.

They’ve not noticed that he’s woken, he suspects as he watches them, both of them doing an admirable job of staying quiet even as Leia curls her body towards Luke to grip his shoulder, breathing hard and shaking like she’s close, desperately close, Luke mouthing at her throat and collarbone as he strokes her, quiet even by his usual standard. He covers her mouth in a kiss when she orgasms under his touch, which _does_ muffle her cry of pleasure, but only some, the whole bed shaking as she pushes her hips up, rubbing hard against his fingers, Luke stroking her through it, keeping her trembling and gasping far longer than Han’s expecting, her voice breaking when she does finally push Luke’s hand away, breathing Luke’s name like a prayer as she draws him close for a slow, probing kiss.

Han doesn’t bother to pretend he’s asleep when Leia’s gotten her breath back well enough to push Luke onto his back and climb atop him, makes no pretense about not watching greedily as she angles Luke’s cock up into her body, sinking fully onto it straight away, her hand lingering between them, slicked with her pleasure where she’s holding Luke steady, her wrist rubbing against her clit. If either of them notices Han watching them, they give no indication, Leia rocking her hips in a slow rhythm, her eyes half-closed and cheeks flush, fully immersed in the pleasure of Luke inside her, Luke watching her with single-minded focus, his hands tight on her hips, squeezing her in an unspoken plea, his pulse beating visibly at his throat. He stays still beneath her, though, letting her set the pace and rhythm, completely at her mercy as she moves on him. Not trying to thrust up into her like he does whenever Han’s got him pinned beneath him, his submission to her thrilling to watch, Han’s cock swelling to full hardness at it, heavy against his thigh.

He’s thinking to reach over and drag his fingers over Luke's ribs, to trace the curve of Leia’s thigh pressed tight against them, perhaps, the urge to _touch_ so powerful it makes his breath come short, but the impulse has little more than passed through his mind when Luke makes a strangled, broken sound in the back of his throat, so desperate and needy that Han’s cock jerks at the sound of it, his heart thudding hard against his ribs as he watches Luke’s eyes slip shut, his hips jerking finally under Leia’s weight, graceless and arrhythmic, an instinctive bid for release more than anything else. He makes the same broken sound again when Leia levers herself off of him and rolls onto her back, pulling him to settle between her legs, whispering yes when he pulls one of her legs up to wrap around his hip, angling her body against his just right to allow him to push deep. Leia arches against him in pleasure as he does, her toes curling as he moves in her, setting a slow, steady rhythm, her arms stretched over her head, gripping the edge of the mattress, anchoring herself in counterpoint to Luke’s thrusts.

Han watches them, breathless, shoving his hand down to palm his cock under the blankets, deeply, powerfully aroused at the sight of them, Leia’s nipples peaked with arousal, mouth open on the quiet gasp of pleasure she makes each on each thrust, Luke fucking her slow, determined to last, all coiled strength and primal lust, his knuckles white with the strain of gripping the sheets, his eyes closed and face flush. He arches his back and bites his lower lip after a precious few minutes, making little noises in the back of his throat that rise into a helpless groan as he climaxes, his hips jerking in a frantic non-rhythm, Leia breathes encouragement to him, pushing her hips up against him, keeping him deep as he comes inside her. She traces her fingers down his ribs as he trembles through his orgasm, tracing the subtle curve of his sides, Luke shuddering against her as she does, leaning down to kiss her, sloppy and breathless, once it’s over, a sweet habit Han well knows and loves when he’s the one wrapped up in Luke’s passion.

“Thank you,” he whispers against her mouth, his hand shaking a little as he lifts it to cup her cheek, so sweet and infatuated with his princess still that it’s almost embarrassing to watch. He looks like he’s gotten caught doing something reprehensible when he pushes himself up off of Leia and sees Han watching them, blushing like Han _hasn’t_ had the pleasure of watching them fuck at _least_ half a dozen times before, hasn’t joined in the fun more times than that.

“Mornin’,” he says, making no effort to suppress the grin he can feel spreading across his face. “You two get bored, waitin’ for me to wake up or something?”

Leia catches on to his intended joke before Luke does, laughing softly even as she rolls her eyes at him, sighing in the long-suffering way she has when she’s not truly put-out over one of his jokes. She wrinkles her nose a little when Luke levers himself off of her, pulling himself free of her body, sighs again when Luke steps out of the bed and offers her his hand, an awkward, old-fashioned habit of his she’s been trying to break him of as long as she’s been his lover and hasn’t at all succeeded in doing. She takes his hand and climbs out of bed with all the grace of the royalty Han often forgets she is when he’s in bed with her, happy that morning to take in the sight of her, rumpled from her exertions with Luke, her thighs slicked with the evidence of their pleasure. She pauses just long enough to kiss Luke on the cheek before crossing the room to the shower, closing the door quietly behind her.

Luke sighs and climbs back into bed, loose and warm in the way he is only after he’s come, pliant and submissive when Han tugs him close enough to kiss, good and dirty, making a tired little sound when Han gets a hand on him, fondling his cock where it’s softened and sticky against his thigh.

“Helluva way to wake up,” Han tells him when Luke moves away from the kiss as if he’s not got the energy to keep it going.

“Mm. It was,” Luke says. He tips his head to the side, looking up at Han with all the affection and focus Han still struggles to believe is for him, _all_ for him, sometimes, lifting a shaking hand to trace the curve of Han’s shoulder. “I’m glad she came with us.”

Han snorts around a surge of jealousy, turning his head to kiss the top of Luke’s index finger. “What,” he says, “you think I can’t handle wearin’ you out and doin’ your rebellion’s dirty work without your princess around to help out or somethin’?”

“No,” Luke says, “I meant I’m glad for her. And us.” He brushes his hand down over Han’s chest, trailing his fingertips through the curls there, resting his palm over Han’s heart. “It’s been a long time since she’s relaxed like this. And you, too.”

“Eh, you know me. I’m always --”

“You have nightmares, usually,” Luke says, “but you didn’t last night. Either of you. A few dreams, but not what you usually have.”

Han squints at him and gets a steady, unruffled gaze in answer, Luke’s shyness about his creepy Force religion as painfully absent as ever, even -- or maybe especially -- in the sated state of grace he’s nestled himself into that morning. “You been snoopin’ through my head while I sleep or something?” Han says.

Luke shakes his head, blonde hair scrubbing against the fabric of the pillowcase. “No,” he says. Then, after a moment, “not intentionally, anyway.”

“Might not work out for you, doin’ that,” Han warns him. “There’s stuff in there that’d make your head explode if you got ‘hold of it by accident.” He grins, a wicked thought dripping through his mind like warm syrup. “Unless that’s where you learned how to make your princess fall apart for you like she did. ‘Cause if that’s the case ...”

Luke shakes his head again, Han’s attempt at making a joke evading him as it usually does. “No,” he says, “Leia showed me what she likes. And doesn’t like.”

Han’s imagination is quick to fill him on on what _that_ learning experience must have looked like, some of his arousal from earlier coming back, making his cock twitch, but Luke ruins it, fixing him with a steady look and saying: “Your dreams are usually about being trapped, trying to run but not being able to. The details change, but that’s the common theme I’ve noticed.” He curves his fingers so that they press into Han’s chest, the heel of his hand pressing hard over his heart. “I was glad you didn’t see that nightmare last night. You seemed to sleep well.”

Han opens his mouth to answer, but words fail him, arrested as they often are in the face of Luke’s calm, disarming honesty. He leans into the press of Luke’s hand against his chest to kiss Luke on the mouth instead, letting the familiar surge of lust and possessiveness he feels whenever he’s got the younger man in his bed wash over him like the warmth of the morning sun, blotting out all other thoughts in their intensity.

He’s reluctant to leave the bed when Leia emerges from the ‘fresher, not only cleaned but dressed as well, her hair arranged into a neat braid wrapped around her head like a crown, her posture straight, controlled, the posture of royalty, of a diplomat ready to negotiate. No trace left of the passionate woman falling apart under Luke's touch, the lover breathing affections against Luke's ear.

“Mornin’, your highness,” he says, just to see if she’ll drop some of the formality she’s put on along with her clothes.

She offers him a controlled smile, turning her attentions far too quickly to the mess of maps and intel strewn across the table. “Your rendezvous is in an hour,” she says without looking at him. “You should dress.”

He pushes aside the temptation to make a crack about needing fewer than ten minutes with either of them, after the show they put on for him that morning, but he resists, knowing all too well from past attempts to get Leia’s hands and mouth on him when she’s working that it won’t end well for him. There’ll be time for that sort of thing later, after the exchange has been made, he tells himself as he pulls himself out of the bed and dresses in his still ungodly uncomfortable Imperial uniform, the synthetic material scratchy against his skin, awful in contrast to the soft bedsheets, the warmth of Luke naked against him, getting his cock to go fully soft in record time, tucked up tight against the seam of his trousers.

“Ready for this, kid?” he says, pleased to turn and take in the sight of Luke dressing in uniform, the knowledge that he’s had the graceful body concealed under the clean-pressed lines of the uniform against him, _in_ him, and will again, likely sooner rather than later, the thought making his breath catch, a whisper of his earlier arousal brushing over his senses.

“I think so, yes,” Luke says, buttoning his collar tight at his throat and reaching for his cap. “I don’t think it’s going to be all that complicated.”

“Yeah, should be easy enough,” Han agrees. “Step to it, Sergeant.”

Luke’s mouth curves in a lopsided smile that he only half-manages to pull back into a neutral expression. All the same, he _looks_ like an Imperial pencil-pusher, datapad tucked under his arm and mouth tight in a thin line, turning to face Leia without any of his usual soppy-sweet affection showing through. “We’ll contact you if we need any assistance or additional information. I don’t think we will, though.”

“Always good to be prepared in case,” Leia agrees. She hesitates just for a breath before stepping in close to kiss him, one of her hands resting on his side, murmuring something against his mouth too softly for Han to catch.

“You, too,” Luke says, in answer, kissing her on the nose.

“And _you,”_ she says, turning her attention to Han, “try not to do anything stupid.”

Han treats her to a grin, pulling her close for a better kiss than the one she got from Luke. “Like kissin’ the leader of the rebel scum while I’m in uniform?” he says.

“Among a host of other things I’m sure you could think of without difficulty,” Leia says, but there’s no venom to it, maybe even a bit of affection in her tone. She kisses him once more before stepping back, the same look of apprehension on her face she has every time she sends them out, even for a task as simple as the one they’ve got in their hands.

He leaves her to her worries, following Luke out of their suite and down to the murky light of late morning, Luke falling into step at his side, marching like the good little soldier he’s slowly becoming the longer he hangs around the rebellion. The streets aren’t empty but they’re not the bustling swirl of activity they were the last time Han visited, the quiet awkward, artificial; something he’s come to recognize whenever there’s been an increase in Imperial activity. He frowns at their surroundings as they walk, noting the handful of pubs and restaurants that look good to him, his optimism not entirely extinguished that he’ll get to take Luke and Leia out for a meal that isn’t rations or room service, the prospect of getting a good cold pint of ale before the flight back to Hoth in their awful Imperial freighter almost as appealing as eating a hot meal in the open air.

“This way,” Luke says, pulling him from his musings to go down a grimy alleyway, the opposite direction than they’re supposed to be going. “And make it fast.”

“Make what fast?” Han says.

“You said you needed to relieve yourself, didn’t you?” Luke says, glaring up at him. Which is weird on several different levels, the bluff so out-of-place and _believable_ that it actually takes Han a second to recognize it for what it is.

“Wouldn’t so often if this belt weren’t so tight,” he says, tapping the buckle at his waist. 

“And if you didn’t drink so much,” Luke counters. “Come on. You’ll be less visible up here.”

“Worried the locals’ll want to keep me if they see what I’m packin’?” Han says.

Luke sighs, the sound of it so like Leia’s usual expression of disapproval it’s almost uncanny. “You wish,” he says.

They round a corner and follow another alleyway for a block before Luke pushes him to the left, slipping down into what looks like it might have, at one point, been a private garden, the vines covering the fence they follow back to the road providing adequate cover, for all that the road doesn’t, leaving them fully exposed once again.

“It’s all right,” Luke says, “they’re gone. We lost them back there. I think they knew we’d see them if they followed us down the alleys. I was hoping they would.”

“They who?” Han says.

Luke shakes his head. “I don’t know. I could sense someone following us, though. Probably just interested in mugging us, but I didn’t want to risk it.”

“Gettin’ mugged ain’t on my to-do list,” Han says. He nudges Luke in the arm with his elbow. “Good call. And good bluffing. Didn’t know you had that in you.”

Luke looks up at him, his eyes only half-shielded by his cap. “I learned it from you,” he says, and Han snorts in answer, happy to quietly nurse the swell of pride he feels under his breastbone.

He’s sweating a little under his uniform by the time they reach the rendezvous point, eager to make the exchange and be done with it, hopeful that the whole thing will go off well enough for him to convince Leia that they should stick around for another day, at least, not go running back to Hoth at their first opportunity. Maybe use Luke as his excuse, he’s thinking as he follows the younger man into an unassuming shop advertising jewelry and other fine accessories, citing the very real waste it would be to bring him all the way to Ord Mantell and _not_ take him to the foot of the mountains ringing the city, to see at least one of the famed waterfalls near the caves. To have him all to themselves in a room with a bathtub they didn’t use for anything but soaking and _not_ stay an extra night to introduce him to the fun of fucking in water.

He pushes his schemes from his thoughts as they’re greeted by their contact, a middle-aged Dele named Odan, who has a scar that runs down the left side of her face and neck, past the neckline of her tunic, all the way to the top of her upper arm. She greets them with a saccharin smile, bowing and addressing them by their ranks.

“Always a pleasure to do business with our Imperial friends,” she says, “and on such a temperate morning, too.”

“The weather has little to do with our visit today,” Luke says, the scripted response so far from something Han would expect to hear coming out of his mouth it’s almost laughable.

“No, but it’s never a burden to enjoy a pleasant day,” Odan says. “Please come in. We’ll be more comfortable speaking in the parlor.”

She leads them into a back room decorated like a gypsy’s tent, the hanging silks and beads and weavings concealing the signal jammer she switches on before settling on a well-loved chair in the corner, gesturing for Han and Luke to sit opposite her. “I haven’t got as much intel as I usually do,” she says, pulling up a bag and rifling through it. “Suspicions are growing every day. I would congratulate you on getting the Empire’s notice, finally, rising in the ranks of their priorities, but it might be more appropriate to offer my condolences.” She hands them a wrapped stack of datachips. “I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be able to continue working together. A loss for us both, of course.”

Luke takes the chips from her, tucking half into his pockets and handing the other half to Han. “It is,” he says. “We appreciate all you’ve done for us, for our cause. Leia asked me to pass on her gratitude and her apologies for her error yesterday.”

Odan waves one of her hands in front of her face as if swatting the apology like an annoying insect. “She’s too sensitive, that girl,” she says. “Always determined to be perfect. You tell her for me that she has nothing to apologize for.” She smiles, showing far too many teeth for Han’s comfort. “I’ve known her since she was little more than an adolescent. One of the Rebellion’s best, she is. She’s trained the two of you well, I can see.”

“It’s been a mutual exchange,” Han says, putting in effort to keep his tone even and friendly despite his chafing at the idea of Leia training him to do _anything._

“Plenty of that happening in the galaxy these days, and not all of it to my liking,” Odan says. “Speaking of which, when can I expect supplies to help tip the balance in my favor?”

Luke hands her the datapad. “One standard week, at most,” he says as she skims the inventory. “Less than if we don’t run into any complications.”

Odan hands the datapad back. “Prompt as always,” she says. “I appreciate it. You’ll want to purchase something from the shop on your way out, a trinket or souvenir for your Imperial family, I’m sure.”

Han takes the hint and stands, the datachips heavy in his jacket’s inner pocket, awkward against his ribs. Luke stands as well, dipping his head in a side-slant nod as he does.

“Thank you for your continued support,” he says.

“A mutual exchange,” Odan says with a grin that turns predatory when she angles it towards Luke. “I believe Leia likes purple, if you’d like to pick something for her. A beautiful decoration for her beautiful hair, perhaps.”

Han rolls his eyes but Luke says _that’s a nice idea, thank you_ and, predictably, picks out a decorative comb encrusted with lilac gemstones on his way out. He pays _way_ more for it than he should, doesn’t even try to haggle, only wiping the puppy-love look from his face when Han pointedly clears his throat at him, his cheeks pink as he tugs his cap on and leaves the shop.

They walk a block, maybe two, when Luke stops, looking around. “We’re going the wrong way,” he says.

Han, to his own self-awarded credit, recognizes the bluff for what it is this time, sighing loudly enough to be heard in the next district. “Your sense of direction is a liability,” he says. “Where’re we supposed to be going?”

Luke motions towards a side-street. “This way,” he says.

“You see somethin’?” Han says in a quiet voice once they’ve left the main road.

“No, but I could feel someone watching us again. It could be nothing, but I don’t want to risk it.”

It’s never nothing with Luke, much as Han dearly wishes it were sometimes, the younger man’s sense for _good_ things nonexistent and his ability to sniff out -- and attract -- trouble far too refined for Han’s tastes. “Could find a place to get a drink, lay low for a while,” Han suggests, but Luke shakes his head immediately, knocking his cap askew with the force of it.

“No. It’s -- whatever it is, it feels like intent, like they want to hurt us _now._ Not talk to us.”

“Great. ‘They,’ as in more’n one? Imperial?”

“I can’t tell,” Luke says. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m _totally_ gonna be upset about you not readin’ minds better,” Han says. “You’n Leia, I swear. Just like our mole said, you’re both carryin’ the weight of the universe on your shoulders all the time.” He gets his hand around Luke’s upper arm and pulls him onto another side-street, the time he spent studying the map of the city unfortunately proving itself to have been time he spent well. “C’mon, we’ll lose ‘em in the foothills. Wanted an excuse to show you the mountains up close anyway.”

They follow the winding network of streets through the nicer part of the city then out into the less savory outer neighborhoods, their uniforms drawing attention from the locals but keeping away trouble, the Black Sun’s collusion with the Empire working in their favor. Luke doesn’t react to the sight of the mountains like Han was hoping he would when they move beyond the settled area into paths paved with broken stone and lined with scrub brush, doesn’t react at all, save for moving more quickly, navigating the rough terrain with more ease than Han had expected he would.

“There somethin’ chasing us I should know about?” Han says, not quite out of breath but getting there.

“Yes,” Luke says. “No. Not chasing us, but it would be good for us to be out of sight and away from the locals. I don’t want anyone getting hurt if there’s a fight.”

“Fair enough,” Han says.

They climb to a spot well-concealed behind a copse of trees, a sheer wall of rock at their back offering enough protection that Han feels safe focusing on the datapad in his hands, sending a quick coded message to Leia informing her of their delay while Luke wanders off, coming back just as Han’s starting to worry, streaks of dirt on his uniform and cap but otherwise unharmed.

“Got any updates?” Han says.

Luke shakes his head. “No. Let me try something.”

He sits on one of the flatter rocks and closes his eyes, drawing a long, deep breath as he does, his hands resting palm-up on his knees. Not unlike a traveling entertainer Han knew as a teen, save that for her it was an act, a way to make money off an audience foolish enough to believe she could actually communicate with the universe, speak to the spirits of the dead, whatever tale she decided to spin each night. With Luke, it’s serious and uncomfortable for it, the younger man’s dedication to the Force imbued with all his usual energy and dedication.

He stays like that for what feels like a long time, shaking his head in frustration when he finally opens his eyes and pushes himself off the rock, trying to brush the dirt from his trousers but just making them dirtier in the process. “I can’t tell,” he says. “I can feel them, but they’re not close. Not close enough for me to get a read on them, anyway. But we should --”

The sound of a blaster firing cuts him off, the shadows from the trees washed bright in the sickly green of a blaster bolt just for the barest second before pain rips through Han’s nervous system, searing hot agony that sends him forward in a stumble, his hands outstretched on the instinct, muscle and bone braced for impact with the hard stone ground, nerves anticipating the jarring shock of collision that doesn’t come, Luke launching himself forward to catch him, keeping him mostly upright. He yanks his blaster from his belt while Han clings to him, firing several shots, his arm straight and steady, no answering shots coming as he turns to drag Han up the rocky path beyond their hideout into the twisted crags and splits of the mountain.

“Wha-- where’re we going?” Han says, his vision dotted with bright sparks of pain as he stumbles along, his feet uncooperative on the uneven ground.

“There’s a cave not far from here,” Luke tells him, yanking on him hard enough to bruise but shoring him up well enough that Han doesn’t complain, dizzily grateful for the solid strength of Luke at his side. “I found it earlier. I haven’t been inside it yet, but from the echo of the air moving in it, I’d say it goes in a good distance. It’ll be cover enough for now.” He pulls Han over a patch of jagged rocks that jar their steps as he speaks, introducing a fresh wave of pain to Han’s nervous system. Han swears breathlessly, tightening his grip on Luke’s waist, the agony of his injury making his vision blur as he pulls his blaster from its holster.

“Gonna need to shake ‘em off before we go into hiding,” he says, checking the blaster to make sure it’s set to lethal.

“I think we may have already,” Luke says. “That was a long shot. They weren’t close.” He swallows. “I think the shot would have killed you if they had been.”

Han tightens his grip on his blaster. “Well ain’t that just the best luck I’ve ever had, then,” he grumbles, his tone harsher than he’d intended, revealing more strain than he’d meant to let slip.

“No such thing as luck,” Luke says, and Han would argue with him if he could manage talking and breathing at the same time, but he isn’t entirely certain he can, so he keeps his complaints to himself.

They make their way through a winding path of trees and up a steep incline, Luke only slowing down once they reach what looks like little more than a crack fracturing an immense boulder, the mouth of the cave Luke apparently intends for them to enter only visible once he’s pushed aside a scraggly bit of vegetation, the entrance barely big enough for a man to fit through. The tight entrance gives way to a wider space, a twisting corridor too short for either of them to stand up straight, but that widens into a deep cavern not too far in, Luke all but dragging Han over to a relatively flat spot, chewing at his lower lip as he increases the brightness of their glowtorch, then sets about pulling Han’s holster off and pushing at the scorched, torn fabric of his uniform, exposing the wound stretched across his side.

“Since when’re you an expert on caves?” Han asks him, gritting his teeth against the pulsing waves of pain assaulting his system, nausea just starting to rise up in counterpoint to the shooting agony of ripped flesh and nerves.

Luke doesn’t look at him, focused on poking Han’s side in a way that feels genuinely awful. “My uncle,” he says, after a tense silence, “taught me how to navigate caves, how to mark your way so you don’t get lost. How to tell how deep a cave goes, if it’s likely to be safe.” He lifts his shoulder in what Han assumes is meant to be a shrug without looking up. “Every outlands kid on Tatooine learns it. It’s a necessary survival skill, especially as close to the Jundland Wastes as we were. But I think my uncle taught me more than most kids learned. I knew more than my friends did about caving, anyway, when we were growing up.”

There’s something strange in his tone, but Han can’t focus on it, too busy trying to move himself away from Luke’s unnecessarily rough touch. “He teach you anything about patchin’ up gunshot wounds while he was teachin’ you about caves?” he says, trying to catch his breath when Luke finally relents, his hands dark with Han’s blood as he turns his attentions to digging through his bag for the emergency medipack he packed along, a standard precaution Han never would have thought to take on such a vanilla assignment. “‘Cause I gotta tell you, much as I don’t like the idea of bleedin’ to death on Ord Mantell, I don’t prefer the idea’a gettin’ sewn up by some kid who doesn’t--”

“It’s not as bad as it probably feels,” Luke interrupts, ripping open a sterile pad from his medipack and cleaning his hands before leaning in close to prod at the wound some more, no gentleness or hesitation in his touch or expression, his brow furrowed when Han hisses at him to _stop pokin’ at it, that hurts._ “It’s shallow enough that we don’t need to worry about internal bleeding, and you’ve started to clot already, but I need to clean it out before I stitch the wound. I don’t have a bacta patch and we don’t want to risk infection.”

He then goes right back to scrubbing at the tender exposed flesh of Han’s side like he’s trying to clean grease off a ‘droid or something, not dealing with a living, organic creature. Han grabs him by the wrist more on instinct than conscious thought, his hand shaking with more than just a little tremor he could pass off as weariness or residual adrenaline, a display of weakness he’d prefer never to see himself, and definitely not in front of a witness, even one as dear to him as Luke.

“Much as I love you, Luke,” he says when Luke frowns at him, “I ain’t lettin’ you sew me up.”

“You don’t have much of a choice,” Luke says, easing his hand out of Han’s grip and digging through his bag once again, this time producing a packet of pills Han recognizes as painkillers, and strong ones, at that. “Here. These will help dull the pain. They’ll make you sleepy and slow your reflexes, but it’ll keep you from moving around too much and re-opening the wound.”

“You mean they’re gonna knock me out,” Han translates. “Can’t complain about your nursing skills if I’m droolin’ down myself, that what you’re goin’ for?”

Luke shakes his head. “You’ll be able to remain conscious,” he says. “But you _will_ want them. This next part after I’ve got the wound cleaned out is going to hurt.”

He says it like what he’s _been_ doing hasn’t hurt, a flash of apprehension whipping through Han’s gut at the thought of what he might be planning next, so Han takes the pills, grumbling threats he doesn’t mean while Luke adjusts the glowtorch and leans in, apparently hell-bent on sewing Han up like he’d said he was going to. It takes him little more than half a dozen simple sutures at the edges of the ripped skin to bind the wound closed, nothing Han hasn’t experienced before, and at the hands of someone far less skilled, at that, Chewie’s aptitude for medical care worlds below his competence in engineering, but still, nothing he’d’ve guessed Luke would _actually_ know how to do, and do as quickly as he does, with all the confidence of a man who knows what he’s doing, to boot.

“I’ll be damned,” he hears himself saying, his own voice distant, floating like oil on the surface of whatever drugs Luke gave him “Y’have done this before.”.

Luke looks at him, mouth pressed in a thin line, then goes back to tidying up the medipack, his gaze focused carefully on the work of his hands. “My aunt taught me,” he says, after a moment. “My uncle was a good man, but he wasn’t very graceful. He got hurt a lot on the farm, and we weren’t near any of the towns, so my aunt was the one who patched him up whenever something happened. She showed me so I could help if Uncle Owen got hurt and she wasn’t around.”

“Oh,” Han says, stupidly, groping for something -- anything -- to say, the painkillers in his system strong enough to knock out a tauntaun, dulling his usual wits, his brain sloshing through a tattered mix of thoughts, impulses to point out that Luke’s never talked about his aunt and uncle much before, the powerful urge to express gratitude for Luke’s family teaching him what they did, for Luke learning it, using it to save both of them. The notion that Luke is, and always has been, just full of surprises. Never quite what Han expects.

“Glad they taught you,” he manages, tipping his head back against the solid rock at his back. Luke looks at him, finally, and smiles softly, so softly, the expression thick with pain and love, the man he’s become fully eclipsing the boy Han knew him once to be.

“Me too,” he says.

He pushes himself over to sit at Han’s side once he’s tidied away all of his medical supplies, his bag settled lopsidedly on his thighs, right hand resting on the hilt of his lightsaber, tucked into his belt. Poised to spring into action at the smallest provocation, all of the on-base training Han’s watched him endure over the years evident in the clean lines of his posture, the calm readiness in his affect. Nothing like the wide-eyed farmboy depending almost wholly on the notion of the Force to keep him and his friends safe, the brat barely able to keep his feet under him without an X-wing giving him the power and grace he’s come to be known for throughout the rebel alliance.

“What’s the plan?” Han says after the silence has stretched between them long enough to get on what nerves he’s got left, the strangeness of the evening swirling through the drugs heavy inside him like smoke.

Luke turns just enough to look at him, the glowtorch throwing his features into sharp relief, dramatic shadows draped over his eyes, emphasizing the sweep of his lips. “We’ll wait until you’re able to move without pain,” he says. “That should give them time to lose our trail, give us the opportunity we need to get back to Leia and leave the planet. Or at least get somewhere we can tell Leia what’s going on.”

“She ain’t gonna like this,” Han says.

Luke sighs. “I don’t like it very much either.”

Han grunts concession to that point, pressing his hand cautiously against his side, testing the sensitivity of the wound. The painkillers have significantly dulled the burning pain of the wound, but he can tell even so that he’s not going to be able to move around much without ripping out half of Luke’s careful, neat sutures, nevermind what’ll happen if he has to run or crouch or fight. Nothing to do but sit around and wait, one of his least favorite ways to pass the time, the smooth contours of the cave around them looking more and more like the bars of a prison as Han stares at them, yet another incarceration he’s no choice but to endure.

“So much for takin’ a break,” he grumbles when he catches himself thinking of the wide expanses of snow and ice on Hoth with _fondness,_ of all things.

“Huh?”

Han sighs. “Thought this assignment sounded good ‘cause it’d give us a break from freezin’ our asses off on Hoth,” he says. “Ain’t a big fan’a goin’ back, but at least there was no one shootin’ at us there.”

At his side, Luke breathes out a gentle laugh, his mouth curved with it, almost manic in the harsh light of the glowtorch. “I’ve never gone anywhere with you where someone wasn’t shooting at us,” he says when Han wants to know what’s funny. “I don’t think there’s a planet in the galaxy that doesn’t have _someone_ on it who wants us dead.”

He says it like he’s trying to be funny but knows full-well that he isn’t, looks at Han with that same damn smile on his face but hurt in his eyes that speaks to all the death he’s witnessed over the three years Han’s been around him, the violence and loss he’s endured, the closeness he’s developed with Han and Leia, with Wedge and Chewie and the others on base as a result. The way he’s pushed himself in everything he’s done, from combat maneuvers in his X-wing to the hand-to-hand and blaster training he’s undergone with the other soldiers, to his lightsaber exercises and dedicated attempts at meditation, his determination to be able to save everyone with his skills or his weapons or his Force religion, single-handedly if need be.

Han pushes himself away from the wall, his side protesting hotly as he reaches out to cup Luke’s cheek in his hand, holding him still for a slow, probing kiss, always easier to show what he’s feeling in actions rather than words. Luke kisses him back, maybe getting it, maybe not, maybe just content to pass the time with Han’s mouth against his own; impossible to know. The way his breath comes faster as they kiss tells Han that he’s enjoying himself, at least. Throwing himself into the act with all his characteristic enthusiasm and passion, that much of himself undimmed over the years.

“Wanted another go with you in that tub back in the room,” Han tells him, the words a little slurred but clear enough to make Luke smile, the fondness in his expression at odds with the worry written across his face. “Show you how it’s done.”

“Another time,” Luke says.

Han grins at him, inordinately pleased that Luke liked the bath well enough to want to try it again. He closes his eyes, letting the drugs in his system drag him down into a shallow half-sleep, reassured by Luke’s presence at his side.

He’s slipped fully into sleep when Luke wakes him what feels like minutes later, the stiffness in his muscles as he sits up telling him it’s been considerably longer. His side hurts even before he touches it gently, experimentally, the skin hot and swollen and angry around the stitches, angry. The glow of Luke’s lightsaber replacing the light from their glowtorch tells him that something is deeply, seriously wrong, Luke’s expression grim, for all that it’s heavily shadowed, barely illuminated by the light of his blade.

“Your blaster is by your hand,” he whispers. “Don’t make noise. I don’t think they know we’re in here, yet, but they’re close. If they’ve tracked us this far, they may be able to track us in here.”

Han grimaces, feeling for his blaster and finding it right by his hand, as Luke said it would be. He pushes himself up into a crouched position, his side screaming agony the whole time but his legs poised under him, ready to throw him into action if need be, the metal of his blaster warming slowly under his hand.

Nothing. No noise, no movement. The air in the cave is cool and stagnant, stifling. Han glances at Luke, blinking in vain effort to get his eyes to focus, but Luke’s attention remains focused on the path they followed into the cave, as intense as the blade burning bright before him, his body as motionless as if it were carved from stone.

“How’s your side?” he whispers after what feels like a very long time.

“Feels like I got shot and sewed back together,” Han says, “but I can move, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It is,” Luke says. “We have a window of opportunity here. Unless they’re using the Force to hide themselves from me.”

It’s dark enough in the cave that Han doesn’t hesitate to roll his eyes. “Pretty sure that ain’t it,” he says. “You know where you’re goin’ once we’re out in the open?”

Luke dips his head in a nod. “I looked over the maps while you were resting. There’s a direct path that will take us to the far side of the city. We can get transit back to the spaceport from there. I’ll contact Leia once we’re above ground and let her know the plan so she can meet us at the ship.”

“Can’t get her from here?” Han says.

“No,” Luke says, shaking his head, “no signal underground.”

“Perfect.”

He switches his blaster to his other hand as they make their way out of the cave into the chill blackness of night, Luke’s lightsaber in his hand still but dormant, as dark as the wilderness around them. Han’s side protests every step he takes, but the drugs in his system make the pain bearable, tolerable as he follows Luke through jagged rock and low trees, the younger man’s confidence otherworldly to Han’s drugged brain, nothing like the easygoing brat he’s traveled beside over the last three years. He’s almost frightening like that, intense and focused, ready to strike at any threat that presents itself; very much the weapon Han has watched him training to become.

“Are you doing okay?” he says after they’ve eased through a particularly difficult portion of boulders and broken trees, his tone so low Han can barely make out the words. He shrugs; a mistake his body is very quick to punish him for making.

“Side hurts,” he says, trying not to wheeze. “Nothin’ worse than it’s been, though.”

“We’re nearly there. Do you want another painkiller?”

The temptation’s there to say _yes,_ to take every pill Luke’s got in his medipack, but Han shakes his head, gritting his teeth. “No. Don’t want to slow us down if our friend comes back.”

“I don’t think he will. You could take half a dose, just to numb the pain some.”

“After we’ve launched,” Han says.

Luke doesn’t argue with him, silence settling between them once again as they make their way through the broken stone and looming boulders spreading thinner as they reach the foot of the mountain, moving through clusters of trees to the ramshackle collection of buildings lining the edge of civilization. Luke stops long enough to send a message to Leia, then tucks his lightsaber into his bag and rests his hand on his blaster, straightening into his Imperial soldier act just as they reach the edge of actual paved road, his face set still in a stern scowl that would scare off any sentient with even the smallest shred of self-preservation instinct, which Han appreciates, taking it as unspoken permission to hobble along, not trying to hide his injuries, his ripped and dirtied uniform.

He’s regretting his decision to turn down the offer of painkillers by the time they reach the spaceport, his side a glowing center of agony that’s spread up his ribs and down his leg, bad enough that he’s had to give in and accept Luke’s offer of physical support, and even leaning against the younger man’s side, he’s hurting, his vision messy with it, swimming. He barely recognizes Leia because of it when he sees her waiting for them, clad in her Imperial uniform, her long hair bound up under her cap, but Luke spots her and knows it’s her straight away, calling her _Lieutenant_ to get her attention and offering her a salute that he really needs to work on if he’s going to try to pass himself off as an Imperial goose-stepper.

“We need to go,” she says by way of greeting, her tone almost as severe as Luke’s affect has been for the last hour. “I’ve prepped the ship as best I could. I think it’s ready to launch.”

She’s got a glare on her face that could crack a planet in half, and it’s aimed at Han, which just _isn’t_ what Han needs after the day he’s had. “Sorry to’ve kept you waiting, Your Impatience,” he grumbles, pushing away Luke’s arm and hobbling under his own power, a mistake he trusts his own unbending stubbornness to see him through. “Gettin’ shot wasn’t on my list’a things to do when I got up this morning. Yesterday morning. However long it’s been.”

“No, nor was blowing our cover, I’m sure,” Leia says, “but you’ve managed to do that all the same. Get on the ship, we need to leave.”

She turns on her heel on the word _leave_ and marches away, faster than Han could ever hope to match in his current condition, Luke looking torn between following his beloved princess and staying with Han, his discomfort with their tendency to argue nonstop on full display.

“I’ll be all right at my pace, kid,” Han tells him. “Go see what’s got our royal passenger so upset, see if you can talk her down before I get there. I ain’t piloting this hunk’a junk off the planet with a gunshot wound _and_ a sulking princess, ain’t gettin’ paid half enough to put up with that.”

Luke frowns at him like he’s thinking about coming to Leia’s defense, but he turns and trots off to do as he’s been told without saying anything, catching up to Leia at the entry ramp to their ship, putting one of his hands on her lower back once he’s at her side, destroying whatever might’ve been left of the illusion that any of them were anything but spies pretending to be Imperial officers. Han shakes his head and hobbles across the port, focusing on moving with as little pain as possible instead of the complaints his brain’s listing for him about doing recon with two novices.

He’s not best pleased to find Luke sitting in the captain’s seat when he reaches the ship’s cockpit, Leia seated already in the secondary flight-seat, busy with a datapad. Feels a bit of temper coming up when he pointedly leans against the captain’s seat and lifts both eyebrows at Luke, a suggestion even the dimmest sentient could figure out, and gets ignored, Luke gesturing to the co-pilot’s seat with his left hand.

“You’re in no shape to fly anything,” he says, punching in the coordinates for an Imperial outpost two jumps from Ord Mantell; a diversion tactic as old as Chewbacca’s grandfather and as subtle as the old wookiee, to boot, but nothing that’ll get them shot to scrap so Han lets it be. He looks briefly at Han, darting an unsubtle glance at the bandages concealed beneath Han’s shirt. “I’ll get us back to Hoth. You should get a bacta patch on your side and strap in. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

“It’d be smoother with me at the helm,” Han tells him, staying right where he is, Luke’s butt having long overstayed its welcome in the captain’s seat. “C’mon, scoot. Let me --”

“No,” Luke says, without looking up this time. “Sit.”

Han frowns at him, Luke’s uncharacteristic abruptness bringing him up short. He steals a glance at Leia and finds her trying to watch them without being obvious about it, returning her attention to the datapad in her hands just a fraction of a second too late for the act to work. Giving him the silent treatment, for whatever reason, and where he’s not at all happy with that, it’s better than being shouted at for whatever he’s done _this_ time to make her mad, his patience for her scoldings always reduced when he’s tired or in pain or on-edge.

He flops down into the co-pilot’s seat without another word, mostly because of the growing discomfort spiralling out from his side, the dizzying headache blossoming across his forehead and down his neck from the painkillers in his system, and watches Luke finish setting the launch sequence, his jaw set tight as he eases the ship out of the port and up into the atmosphere, tense and alert in a way the admittedly awful launch and jump don’t at all command, only relaxing a little once they’re in hyperspace and he’s reset their jumps, flying them back to Hoth.

The silence is deafening.

“All right,” he says, finally, shifting in a vain effort to find a comfortable position, “either’a you want to let me in on what I did this time?”

Luke darts a guilty look at him before returning his attention to the panels before him, shaking his head _no_ without saying a word. Leia gives him a disappointed look when he twists around to look at her, sighing heavily as if his question is the biggest burden she’s ever been made to bear.

“Why don’t you tell _us,”_ she says, finally, lowering her datapad and laying her hands atop it, one on top of the other. “Surely you’ll be able to remember whatever you did to warrant a bounty hunter tracking you down and blowing our cover.”

Han’s blood runs cold in his veins. “Bounty hunter?” he echoes.

“Yes. He lost your trail right after you’d made the exchange. He doubled back and found Odan, pressed her for information. When she refused to cooperate, the bounty hunter killed her. Shot her, right in the middle of the street. Like an animal.”

Han swears softly, rubbing his hand over his face. “What makes you think he was lookin’ for _me?”_ he says. “Could’a been some Imperial lackey sent out lookin’ for the guy who’s been helpin’ out your rebellion. Caught up to one’a our informants along the way and killed her ‘cause he could.”

Leia treats him to a condescending glare. “He asked about you by name,” she says, “and he said he’d tracked you down but lost you somewhere in the foothills. He thought Odan would try to reach out to you -- to us -- for help if he threatened her. That he could use her to flush you out.” She swallows. “She didn’t. She was loyal to the end.”

Her eyes are rimmed red, Han realizes, looking at her as closely as he is. She’s been crying, something he’s only seen her do rarely, and never when she thought anyone was around to see it. “I made an enemy a couple’a years back,” he says, looking away from Leia’s gaze, focusing instead on one of the rusted access panels by her flight-seat. “Got nabbed by an Imperial patrol, had to drop a shipment I was takin’ from point A to point B so they wouldn’t bust me for it. Never managed to recoup the loss. Didn’t think it’d matter, s’long as I stayed low, paid it back when I could. Which was _supposed_ to be years ago, had the old man’s promise that he’d pay me enough to cover what I owed in exchange for takin’ Luke to Alderaan, then in exchange for rescuin’ you after our little trip to Alderaan didn’t work out. Not to put too fine a point on it or anything.”

Leia bristles at him, defensive as ever about her homeworld. “You volunteered to come out here _knowing_ that you had a price on your head and you didn’t --”

“Hey, now, I didn’t know there was a bounty on me,” Han says. “Ain’t like it’s been a problem on all the other errands I’ve run for your rebellion. I just owed some money. That ain’t enough to get a price put on you, usually.”

“It is when you owe a Hutt,” Leia says, Luke whipping around to look at him at that, eyes wide and face draining of color.

“You owe a _Hutt?”_

“Yeah, and there’re worse crime lords to owe than that, kid, calm down,” Han says, for all that Luke’s reaction to the name is similar to his own, to most smugglers’ who’ve made the mistake of getting sucked into the Hutt’s Outer Rim operations. “I didn’t know it was gonna turn out like this. Like I said, it hasn’t been an issue ‘til now.”

“It didn’t need to be an issue at _all,”_ Leia says. “We could have helped you settle your debts, Han. If you’d just _told_ us you --”

“-- were smuggling Spice and got nabbed by the Empire, had to drop Jabba’s Spice into the void to keep from gettin’ locked up,” Han interjects. “Yeah, that’s a conversation I’d enjoy havin’ with your fancy rebel generals, since they like me so much already. I _told_ you, I had it under control. Killed the last hunter Jabba sent after me, and --”

“I thought you said you didn’t know there was a price on you,” Leia says.

“What?”

“You said you didn’t know there was a price on your head,” Leia says, “but if you killed one bounty hunter sent after you already --”

Han sighs, exasperated. “That’s -- well -- yeah, I knew that -- _look._ Jabba ain’t the forgiving sort,” he says, and even to his own ears it sounds like he’s backpedalling, caught in a lie. “‘Course one’a his lackeys found me on Tatooine and tried to take me in for some quick credits. ‘S expected when you’re on the same planet as the guy you owe. Didn’t think it’d get me any attention out here, or anywhere other’n Tatooine.”

A muscle in Leia’s jaw twitches. “You blew our cover,” she manages, finally, “got one of our _best_ sources of intel killed, put Luke in danger, put out entire operation in danger, all because you couldn’t get over your own damned _ego_ and ask for help.”

“Yeah well there ain’t much in the way’a gratitude for gettin’ help, is there,” Han shoots back, his skin crawling with all the sideways glances he’s gotten from what passes for brass in the rebellion over the years, all the murmured jokes about a lowlife like him hanging around _proper_ rebels like Luke and Leia finally forming into justification even _he_ can’t brush off, his shit past finally catching up to bite him in the ass. “Get me back to my ship and I’ll go, let you and Luke have fun with your little rebellion without me.”

Leia makes a noise of frustration, her hands curling into fists as she does. “That is _not_ what I’m saying, and you damn well know it.”

“Yeah, well, hard to hear what you’re goin’ for over the sound’a you blamin’ everything on me,” Han tells her.

He gets silence in answer, Leia’s temper always hot enough to rival his own but her upbringing and training in not speaking her mind helping her to keep her mouth shut whenever it suits her, the flush of her cheeks telling him clearly enough that she could carry on arguing with him for the entire flight back to Hoth seventeen times over. He glares at her, challenging her, until his side starts to really protest, then turns around with a dismissive grunt, casting a glance at Luke as he does. Luke doesn’t look at him, doesn’t come to his defense, staring straight ahead as if there were anything of interest in the streaked light of hyperspace.

Han leaves him to it, figures he doesn’t need Luke to get involved anyway, not if he’s going to take Leia’s side. Doesn’t need _either_ of them to settle his differences with Jabba, either, Leia’s political background and Luke’s warped sense of morality more a burden to him than a benefit when he’s doing the rebellion’s dirty-work, let alone handling his own affairs. He gives Luke one last filthy look, then settles as comfortably as he can in the co-pilot’s seat, silent and aching, his heartbeat raw in his throat as they race across the stars, back to Hoth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
_Author musings:_

Here’s a story I’ve been meaning to write for well over a year now, inspired by CultureVulture73’s request to see Luke’s reaction to seeing a bathtub for the first time (the filename was “tub” up until I finished the story and had to give it a proper name). That prompt got all swallowed up in plot ‘n stuff (how is this thing 19,000 words long), and that ending’s damned depressing, but hey, don’t worry, the canon it’s based on is _way_ more depressing, so, uh.

Yeah.

Fun fact: The first time I watched the orig-trig, I planned to watch them over three days; y’know, one movie a day. We managed that with _A New Hope,_ mostly because we’d spent our morning at the theatre seeing VII on the big screen, and then that evening after I’d watched IV, I wouldn’t shut up about Han coming back at the end (I genuinely did not see that coming and crowed way too loudly about it when it happened). But then we watched _The Empire Strikes Back_ the next day and it was _so goddamn depressing_ that I insisted on watching _Return of the Jedi_ immediately after to cheer myself up, except it didn’t really cheer me up because _that movie is kind of a piece of shit no really it is,_ and so I ended up going on AO3 looking for fanfiction to cheer me up and now here we are a year and just shy of a half later and I’m 100% bonafide _Star Wars_ trash, ain’t that just the funniest twist of fate.

Oh, and the bit about the mountains was mostly written _before_ I decided to take a day off of work last week and flap my happy ass up 3,000’ of mountain one state over, but then that was a thing that happened and I spent the part of the climb that _wasn’t_ absolutely handing my ass to me in a cardboard box grinning over the idea of Han and Luke struggling up said mountain with Han hurt and Luke being all serious and scary. True story, my poor partner saw me grinning over it from time to time during our climb and knew better than to ask. It’s an interesting life he leads, gotta feel badly for him sometimes (I don’t).

I hope you like this story. I like it. Had quite a lot of fun stitching this one together.


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